“The Passover Lamb of Our House: Aaron's Story” by Dr. Terry Harman
- Dr. Terry Harman
- Dec 26, 2025
- 10 min read
Updated: 7 days ago
On the Road to Jerusalem
The sun was still climbing above the hills of the Lower Galilee when the time came to set out for Jerusalem. Rivka tightened the last bundle on the donkey and hummed one of the old songs our mothers used to sing. Talia clutched a small goatskin of water, careful not to spill a drop. Aaron, my eldest, walked beside me, holding the tether of our lamb close to his chest as if guarding a younger brother.
We had raised this little one from birth. I remember the night he first stood on shaky legs, how Aaron laughed and said, “Abba, this one is strong. This will be my lamb.”
For weeks, he brushed the lamb’s soft coat and checked his hooves for any cuts or bruises. He fed him from his own hand and, though he never said his name aloud, I knew he had given him one in his heart.
Now, the lamb trotted faithfully at Aaron’s side. Around that neck hung a copper tag, catching the morning light as it swung: “Beit Avraham.” This lamb was not borrowed, not bought in haste from a merchant within the Temple courts. This lamb was our lamb. This male lamb represented our house, drawing us back to the God of our fathers.
We were traveling up to Jerusalem for one of the three pilgrimage festivals, as the Torah commands, to present our Passover lamb in the Temple courts. The road was crowded with others like us, families from Judea, Samaria, the Galilee, and beyond, all ascending toward the city of David, all carrying their own offerings and their own stories.
Aaron’s Question
By midday, the sun burned hot above us, and dust clung to our sandals. Aaron walked quietly for a long time; his fingers wrapped around the tether.
At last, he looked up at me, eyes troubled. “Abba,” he asked, “why must we travel so far? Why this lamb—our lamb? Could we not give another, one that is not from our own flock, one we do not know?”
His question settled heavily between us. How many fathers before me had heard the same words from their sons on this same road? I helped him up onto the cart beside me. The lamb followed, the copper tag tapping softly against his chest.
“Come, my son,” I said. “If we must walk this road, let us walk it with our story on our lips.”
Remembering Egypt
“Let us look back,” I began, “not a few years, but thousands, back to the days when our fathers were slaves in the land of Egypt. For nearly four hundred years, they labored under Pharaoh’s hand, their backs bent under heavy loads, their songs silenced by the crack of the whip. Many cried out to the God of Avraham, Yitzchak, and Ya’akov, begging for deliverance, but as generations passed, some lost heart.
“Our people began to forget who they were. The language of their taskmasters slipped into their speech. The customs and idols of Egypt crept into their homes. Some even bowed to foreign gods. Yet even then, the Holy One, blessed be He, did not forget His promise.”
I saw Aaron’s eyes fixed on my face, his hand absently stroking the lamb’s neck. “God sent Moshe to Pharaoh with a simple command: Shalach et ami - ‘Let My people go.’
Each time Pharaoh refused, a plague struck the land: water turned to blood, frogs and lice swarmed, and darkness thick as cloth covered Egypt. But Pharaoh’s heart grew harder.
“Then came the final warning. At midnight, the firstborn of every house in Egypt would die. Yet to our people, God gave a path of mercy. Each household was to take a perfect lamb, a male without blemish, from the flock. They were to slaughter it at the appointed time and place its blood on the doorposts and lintel of their homes.
When the messenger of death passed through the land, he would see the blood and pass over those marked houses.”
Aaron swallowed. “Abba…even the firstborn of Pharaoh?”
“Yes,” I said quietly. “Even Pharaoh’s own son died that night. There was a great cry in Egypt. Pharaoh’s resistance broke, and he told our people to go and to take the wealth of Egypt with them: gold, silver, fine linen, flocks, and herds.
Yet even then, his heart turned again. He chased after them to the shore of the Sea of Reeds. With the waters before them and the chariots behind, our people were trapped.
“But the Holy One split the sea. Our fathers and mothers walked through on dry ground, while the water rose like walls on either side as the Egyptians pursued, the waters crashed back upon them.
Thus, with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm, God redeemed us from slavery and made us His people.” We walked a while in silence. The road curved, and in the distance, the ridges toward Jerusalem shimmered in the heat.
Why Our Lamb?
“So, you see, my son,” I said at last, “the Passover lamb is not just an animal from our field. It is a sign. It tells the story of that night when death passed over our homes, and God brought us out to freedom. Every year, when we bring a lamb, we say to our children and to ourselves: We remember. We have not forgotten who brought us out of Egypt.”
Aaron looked at the lamb, then back at me. “But why must it be our best? Why must it be the one I raised?”
“Because, Aaron,” I answered softly, “redemption cannot be cheap. This lamb represents our house, drawing us back to the God of our fathers. If we brought one we did not care for, one that cost us nothing, what would it say about our hearts?
The Holy One commanded us to bring a male without blemish, strong and whole. We examine him, we guard him, we grow fond of him, because our offering should reflect the godly intentions of our heart and the gratitude we have for God’s mercy.”
I placed a hand on Aaron’s shoulder. “Through this korban, we remember our deliverance from Egypt and our people draw near to the Holy One. This lamb walks with us so that our hearts may walk back to the Holy One of Israel.”
Choosing and Keeping the Lamb
“When the time came,” I continued, “I went out to our flock as the head of our household, the one entrusted with the blessing. You walked with me, remember?” Aaron nodded. “We looked over every young lamb. We checked their legs for any weakness, parted the wool to see if there were scars, watched their breathing, and inspected their eyes.
Day after day, I inspected them,
setting aside those that were without defect,
those that might be fit to stand in the Temple courts,
just as our fathers were told to keep the lamb for several days
to be sure it was without blemish.
“Then we saw him this one.” I gestured toward the lamb. “His coat shone in the morning light, his limbs were straight, his eyes clear. You said, ‘Abba, look - he’s perfect.’” “I remember,” Aaron murmured.
“That very day,” I said, “I brought him not only close to our house, but into our house. I told you, ‘Aaron, this one will be the lamb for our family.’ You took his rope in your own hands, led him across the threshold, and tied him gently to the post at the foot of your own bed.”
“For four days, he stayed there, in the heart of our home. In the morning, you woke to his soft bleating. At night, you reached down from your bed to stroke his neck. Talia would sit on the floor and feed him grain, and even Rivka would smile to see how he had become almost another child in the family. We watched him closely, making sure no blemish appeared and no sickness touched him.
“It is a strange thing, my son,” I said quietly, “to let a lamb live so close to your own bed when you know he is destined for the altar. But this is how a father teaches his children that a korban is not something distant or cheap.
This lamb stands for our house, drawing us back to the God of our fathers, and his nearness to your bedpost taught your heart what our lips sometimes forget: that coming near to God costs us something dear.”
Only after those four days were complete, and we were sure he was still whole and unblemished, did we untie him from your bedpost. Then we loaded our bundles on the donkey, and together we began the long road up to Jerusalem.
At the Temple Gates
As we neared Jerusalem, the sound of pilgrims grew louder, songs rising from small groups, the bleating of countless lambs, the murmur of many tongues. The city itself seemed to breathe with anticipation.
At last, we came to the Temple courts. Priests in white linen moved with practiced order, and lines of families like ours waited patiently, each with a lamb in hand. The scent of incense mingled with the smell of smoke from the great altar.
A priest stepped toward us at the gate of linen and asked, “What is your offering?”
“Korban Pesach,” I replied. He looked at our lamb, then at me. “Is this your lamb? Does he belong to your family?” I felt the weight of that question. I glanced at Aaron, whose eyes were already moist, and answered, “Yes. He is ours. He belongs to my house.”
The priest took the lamb’s tether and, scrutinizing the lamb, felt along its spine, lifted each leg, and checked its eyes and mouth. At last, he nodded, satisfied that the lamb was without blemish and fit to be offered.
Then, with practiced gentleness, he reached for the copper tag that hung around the lamb’s neck. The small plate with the words “Eli ben Avraham” glinted for a final moment in the light before the priest slipped it free and placed it in my hand.
In that instant, my throat tightened. The lamb would not return with us to the Galilee. Yet through him, our home would be renewed. Our name would now be remembered before the altar of the Holy One. We would return home without the lamb, but with the memory of that moment engraved in our hearts.
Epilogue: A Story Within a Story
That evening, as the sounds of the Temple quieted and we walked away from the courts, Aaron walked at my side, turning the copper tag between his fingers. The letters “Eli ben Avraham” glowed faintly in the last light of day.
“Abba,” Aaron asked,
“Why did our name have to
hang from his neck?
Why must our lamb carry our name?”
I smiled sadly. “Because, my son, the Holy One wants us to know that each offering is not some distant ritual. It is our life, our story.
When our name hangs upon the lamb, we are saying: This stands for our house. We come as we are before the God of our fathers, asking to be drawn close. Through the offerings, our people draw near to the Holy One and seek His mercy.”
“You know, Aaron,” I continued, “our sages teach that the world is full of meshalim, parables and that God hides nimshalim, the deeper meanings, within them.
Every lamb is a mashal, and one day the Holy One will reveal the nimshal in the days of Mashiach.” “Who is Mashiach, Abba?” he asked.
“Mashiach,” I said, “is the anointed king from the house of David, the Redeemer of Israel, the one who will gather our exiles and restore the kingdom of David. He will be a great and righteous leader, a man of Torah and wisdom, who will bring peace and justice to Israel and to all the nations. Under his rule, Jerusalem will be a place of true harmony, and the knowledge of God will fill the earth like water covers the sea.”Aaron looked again at the tag. “And what do our lamb and this little sign have to do with him?”
I pointed back toward the Temple, now a silhouette against the reddening sky. “All these signs, the blood on the altar, the lamb without blemish, our family’s name hanging from his neck are like small lights along the road. They remind us that the Holy One is guiding our history toward great redemption.
One day, when Mashiach comes, when the Redeemer of Israel is revealed, we will look back and see how every offering, every festival, every lamb was a hint, a whisper of what God was preparing.”
I closed his fingers gently around the copper tag. “Keep this, Aaron. One day, when you are a father, and you bring your own lamb to Jerusalem, you will tell your children:
Our God has not forgotten us. He brought us out of Egypt, He receives our offerings, and He will, in His time, send Mashiach to complete the redemption He began.
And then you will understand that every step on this dusty road, every tear shed in the Temple courts, and every lamb we have ever offered was part of the Holy One’s story with His people.”
Your "Pass Over" Story
As you read this story of a family on the road to Jerusalem, let it gently open the door to your own memories. Think back to the Passover seders of your life - around your grandparents’ table, in a crowded dining room, in a small apartment with improvised elements, or even at a seder you joined as a guest.
In those moments, you were not only remembering their Exodus; you were living out your own. Take time to ask yourself:
When did God “pass over” you or your family - sparing you from a danger you only understood later?
Where in your journey did God lead you out from a narrow, constricting place - a toxic relationship, a destructive habit, a season of fear or shame?
Which family stories, told and retold at the seder table, carry quiet traces of God’s protection, provision, or unexpected rescue?
If you can, linger with one memory. Picture the table, the faces, the words of the Haggadah, the taste of matzah or maror. Then ask:
What was God doing in our story that I did not see at the time? Where was He leading us out, even if we were walking with trembling steps?
Consider turning this reflection into a small act of remembrance:
Write down one “Exodus moment” from your life or your family’s life.
Share it at your next seder or holiday meal as a personal testimony, your own telling of how God brought you out.
Or whisper a quiet prayer: “God of our fathers, thank You for the ways You have led me out of my own Egypt. Help me remember, and help me tell Your story of my deliverance.”
Your family’s seders are part of a much larger journey. Your own deliverances , small and great are chapters in the same story of a God who still brings His people out, who still opens seas, and who still leads weary hearts toward freedom.